Bronwen & Harry
by Caesar Augustus Plutarch
Summary: Bronwen, Sirius Black's illegitimate daughter, enters ten year-old Harry Potter's life changing the course of his life.


Bronwen & Harry

chapter one

Harry awoke with a start but a hand on his chest prevented him from sitting up.

"Get dressed, Harry," a quiet voice told him. "I'll be waiting in the lounge."

Harry heard rather than saw the stranger back away from him. He laid still for a moment as his groggy, sleep heavy mind struggled with making sense of the situation. He could not place whomever roused him. The voice was unfamiliar. As he thought, Harry realised that the accent was not even English. It sounded more like the American southern accents he heard on the television although not as distinctive.

It occurred to Harry that he should be frightened. An intruder was in his home in the middle of the night. Uncle Vernon was very careful about checking the locks on all of the doors and windows every evening before he retired so the American must have broken into the house. Honest people just do not do that sort of thing yet the voice was soft and gentle not how he expected someone up to no good to sound.

Another thought bubbled to the surface. How did an American know his name? He never met any Americans. Little Whinging was not a tourist destination. There was not an university or a public school in town that attracted foreign students. It was not even along the path to anything exciting. If you did not live here, you did not come here even stopping on your way to somewhere else.

What was the American's interest in him? It was not as if he were a likely candidate for kidnapping. His Aunt and Uncle were more apt to pay anyone to keep him then to get him back or simply laugh at any demand.

Burning with curiosity, Harry rolled from bed. Getting dressed in the dark was old hat to him as well as doing so silently. The small cupboard that constituted his bedroom was cramped but Harry did not bump into anything. Several snores echoing down the staircase told him that the Dursleys still slept but even if they were awake, they would not have heard him.

Harry saw a shadow rise from a chair as he entered the lounge.

"Let's go," the stranger said.

Mute light from the streetlamps flooded into the house when she opened the door. It was still dark but the first hint of dawn teased the eastern horizon.

Harry stood for a moment before he followed the American outside. On the front step he got a look at a face to go with the voice as the girl closed the door behind them and a girl was the stranger. While she was a few inches taller than Harry, she could not have been much older. She was pale and slender. A pair of rectangular eyeglasses sat on a pert nose nestled amid a heart-shaped face. Her long dark hair flowed easily past her shoulders. Supple black boots disappeared under a black skirt topped by a black blouse. She wore a small black leather bag strapped to her waist. She did not seem particularly morbid to Harry so he supposed that the dark colours were to blend into the night.

The girl glanced at him also.

"You look like your father," she said before heading down the walk.

Harry scampered after her. "You knew my father?" he asked excitedly.

"No," the girl replied crossing the street. "I never met him."

Harry frowned. "Then how do you what he looked like?"

"Photographs, of course," she said raising her left hand. "Are you ready?"

"Ready for what?" Harry asked.

A purple triple-decker bus that seemly appeared out of nowhere loudly screeched to a halt in front of them. Harry jumped back tripping over the walk but the girl caught him before he fell. As a befuddled Harry got his feet back under him, an elderly man in a purple uniform poked his head from the bus.

"I'm Horace Hornblower and I'll be your conductor," he said in a trembling raspy voice. "What's ya destination?"

"London," the girl replied. "North-west London."

"That'll be eleven sickles apiece," Horace said holding out a hand.

The girl gave the conductor some coins. He counted them quickly.

"Twenty-two," he said. "Right, hop on."

Harry looked about for seats but there were nothing but beds. None were occupied.

"Best lay down quickly," the girl said all but jumping on one bed.

The bus started with a lurch sending Harry flying backwards. He collided with a bed momentum flipping him onto a mattress. Any questions he had fled his mind as the bus terrifyingly sped down the roads. It shot past what scant traffic there was as if the cars and lorries were standing still. More than once the bus violently leaned over wheels leaving the pavement as it roared around curves. Twice Harry could swear that telephone boxes leaped out of their way when the bus jumped the pavement. Time and time again it seemed as if they were about to collide with another vehicle only to have the bus turn aside at the last possible moment. Once a scream escaped Harry when he was certain that they were about to crash head on with another bus but most of the trip he was too frightened to make a sound. The one thought that managed to get past his terror was that the other drivers did not seem to pay them any attention no matter how closely they came to hitting one another.

The bus stopped abruptly. Harry's white knuckle grip on the bed frame kept him from being flung to the floor entirely but pendulum-like his legs swung free of the mattress. He slowly released one finger at a time then oozed to the ground. He lay panting for several moments. Slight tremors racked his body while his stomach threatened to rebel.

"Quite a ride," the girl said extending a helping hand.

Harry shook his head trying to clear his stampeding thoughts. He was wide awake now thanks to a fear fueled adrenaline surge. He took her hand but was afraid that he would be sick if he tried to speak. She tenderly herded him onto the sidewalk. The bus vanished leaving only an echoing roar behind while Harry shakily got his legs under him.

"Are you ready?" the girl asked after a few moments.

Harry looked about him. They were obviously in an urban area but the ride left him disoriented. Until they stopped, scenery was a blur for anything that was not directly in front of them. Nothing was known to him.

"Where are we?" he asked.

"London," she replied. "I live around the corner."

The rising sun shed enough light for Harry to notice the neighbourhood as he walked alongside the girl. It was not exactly seedy but it was far from posh. A miasma of genteel poverty hung about the area. From a few of the terraced houses the whistle of teapots and clatter of pans announced that those who had to work the early shift were up and about.

The girl stopped. From her bag, she extracted a small strip of paper which she handed to Harry. _12 Grimmauld Place _he read. He looked at the girl expectantly.

"Think about that address," she said. "There's no need to say it."

To a morning of surprises another was added. A house suddenly appeared between the others as if it shoved those around it aside. It was four stories tall and the height of the steps leading to the entranceway hinted at a basement. Curiously, Harry noted there was neither key hole or knob on the front door.

Worn out from all of the astonishing happenings, Harry stood obstinately on the sidewalk. The girl waited patiently.

"We're actually in London?" he finally asked.

"Yes," she answered.

"Little Whinging to London in a matter of minutes," he stated. "On a bus."

"Yes."

"And a house appears out of nowhere," Harry said. "How?"

The girl shook her head. "I am not certain how the magic behind the Knight Bus works," she replied. "But the house is unplottable."

"Magic!" Harry choked.

She placed a hand on his arm, concern that she did not bother to hide writ large on her face. "Harry," she began. "Are you unfamiliar with magic?"

"Well…in books and films," Harry stammered. "Stage magicians."

"Do you know who you are?" the girl asked. "What you are? Who your parents were?"

"I never truly knew my parents," Harry replied. "They died in a car crash when I was a year old. I don't even know what they looked like."

She sighed. "Come inside. We will have breakfast and I will tell you all that I know about you and your parents and why I sought you. From there, you'll have some decisions to make."

The door opened as they approached. "You're back safely, Bronwen!"

Harry's jaw dropped. The speaker was humanoid but far from human. She was shorter than him with large brown eyes, long pointy ears, and a sharp nose that that more than resembled a bird's beak. She wore soft felt slippers and a navy blue satin pillowcase with holes for the neck and arms.

"Is this him?" the creature asked excitedly in a squeaky voice. "Is this Harry Potter?"

"Yes, Lilac," Bronwen replied. "This is _The Boy Who Lived _himself. Harry, this is Lilac. She's the house-elf here. Come on in."

"Oh, yes, yes, Harry Potter," Lilac said dancing aside. "Come in, come in."

In a daze, Harry stepped through the doorway into a bright, long, expansive hallway. It was chic without being ostentatious. Old-fashioned gaslights winked merrily on walls painted a sedate green. Crown molding and wood trim added a stylish contrast.

"Your name is Bronwen?" Harry asked as a stall while he tried to corral his thoughts.

"Yes," she replied. "Bronwen Winefride Sion Black if you want the whole loaf. I'm Welsh, Obviously. Welsh and English."

"I thought you were an American," Harry said.

"I've lived in the United States for the last nine years," she responded. "Long story. If you don't mind, let's have breakfast first then we'll get into the details. I usually have muffins and porridge with berries and honey but Lilac can make you something else if you want."

"No, porridge sounds good," Harry said his appetite overriding his consternation.

Breakfast passed in near silence. Bronwen, Harry noticed, struggled to keep her eyes opened once they were sitting. He, himself, lost a couple of hours sleep. Bronwen must have lost even more if she slept at all but several cups of tea revived her to the point where she was in no danger of nodding off before they spoke.

Breakfast, while simple, was very good. Lilac popped in and out ensuring that the pair's glasses of juice did not run dry, the tea remained hot, and that the jam for the muffins was to their liking. Harry found her attentiveness to him disconcerting. When she was in the dining room, Lilac hovered over him fidgeting about like a fourteen year-old girl about to meet her favourite boy band. Before no one not even a wet dog had shown him that much notice.

His thoughts drifted back to Number Four Privet Drive. By now the Dursleys would have discovered that he was missing. He knew no tears would be shed. They would hope and pray that he ran away and was not simply roaming around Little Whinging on an early morning stroll. If he did not return soon perhaps a quick _pro forma _call to the police but a celebratory supper would likely be in the planning stages. The pebble in their shoes was gone.

Bronwen sat her spoon down and took a final sip of tea. "Thank you, Lilac," she said pushing herself from the table. "That was very good."

"Yes, it was," Harry echoed popping from his own chair eager for the answers that he was promised.

Bronwen lead Harry upstairs to the first floor and into an exquisitely furnished in the British Colonial style drawing room. Sunlight flooded though several large windows basking the hardwood floor in its warm glow. If there was a speck of dust to be found, it escaped Harry's eye.

"Your home is very beautiful," Harry said.

"Thank you. It's a testament to the power of money coupled with determination," Bronwen said. "A year ago it was…well, it looked like what it was, a house that had been neglected for almost a decade, more then that really taking into account my grandmother's long decline. It cost a small fortune and much effort to get it back shipshape. As I could not get back here very often, I was worried but Lilac managed the work crew like a proper task master. I was very fortunate that she was needing a position when I was in such desperate need of help. The results exceeded my expectations."

Harry frowned. Bronwen spoke as if she lived alone.

"Where to begin?" she mused easing herself down onto a sofa.

"My parents," Harry instantly said turning from the window and his contemplation on the street traffic below.

"That red photo album there," she said pointing to a bookshelf. "Bring it here please and sit down beside me."

Harry quickly obeyed. Bronwen flipped through a few pages before she stopped pointing to a pair of boys. "That is your father and Sirius Black, my father," she said. "Likely taken during their first or second year at school."

Once again, Harry was startled. The photograph, instead of being static, moved like a small five second or so film. He instantly recognised his father. He saw the exact face every time he looked into the mirror down to his unruly hair and glasses. He slowly turned several more pages lingering over each one. In almost every picture his father and Sirius Black were together; sometimes just the two of them sometimes with a friend or tmore. Often, as they aged, with a bevy of girls. Several featured an older couple that Bronwen identified as his grandparents. He finally came to a picture with a beautiful redheaded young woman with green eyes.

"Your mother," Bronwen said. "I think that she was fifteen or sixteen here."

"Would your parents know, for certain?" Harry asked hungry for all the details of his parents' lives.

"My mother is dead," replied Bronwen unemotionally. "My father is currently unavailable."

"Unavailable?"

Bronwen raised her glasses and rubbed her nose wearily. "Right, then, let's get down to brass tacks. I'll start with the basics since you seem ignorant of who we are."

"You and I, Harry, our parents and fair number of people around the world are a special kind of human being. We have the ability to alter to some degree the natural course of things. For the want of a better term we can do magic."

Harry stared at her trying to ferret out the gag. "After all that I've seen this morning, I believe in magic but I'm not special," he said incredulously. "I can't do magic. If I could, I wouldn't be everyone's punching bag."

"It does take training to effectively wield," Bronwen replied. "But I would be very surprised if you had not all ready unconsciously used magic. Did you ever do anything strange and inexplicable? Probably while you were frightened or in a panic."

Harry thought back over his life. Some things had happened here and there. There had been times when he escaped danger or humiliation that defied rational explanation.

Bronwen smiled reading his face. "I thought so," she said. "Anyway, we Brits go to a school called _Hogwarts. _As you'll soon be turning eleven…"

"Next month, on the thirty-first," Harry interrupted.

"Yes, I know," she replied lightly before starting again. "As you'll soon be turning eleven, a letter offering you a place at _Hogwarts _will undoubtedly arrive sometime around that date. It will contain your invitation and what you'll need for your studies."

"You have yours all ready," Harry guessed.

"Last year, near the end of July," Bronwen answered.

"So, you're a student there," Harry surmised.

"No, I'm not," Bronwen said. "I asked for a deferment which Professor Dumbledore, the headmaster was kind enough to grant me. I wanted to finish high school first."

Harry's brow puckered in thought trying to remember details about American schools that he pick up from television. "Don't you have to be eighteen to finish school in America?"

"Usually but I am somewhat of a genius," she replied in a modest tone. "I skipped several grades and graduated last month. As much as I wanted to attend _Hogwarts_ I wanted to complete my education in America also. I was too close just to walk away. As I said, Professor Dumbledore agreed to allow me to do so."

"How old are you?" he asked.

"A dangerous question to ask a woman," Bronwen said with a small grin playing on her lips. "but I'm twelve. I'll turn thirteen in September on the nineteenth."

"I see," said Harry. "So, we'll be classmates like our fathers."

"Yes but they were best friends, brothers practically," Bronwen answered nodding. "I am not going to demand that of you although I do hope that we'll be at least amicable. We are almost family. My father that is, in fact, your Godfather."

"Really?" Harry asked. "Was my father your Godfather?"

"No," she replied crisply. She paused before quickly continuing. "The story is…Let me back up several years first. Witches, wizards, sorcerers, enchanters, whatever term you prefer are, as I said, people with a special talent but in the end they are people. Like any other group of people you have those that are moral, those that are not and those that hover somewhere between the two poles."

"An evil man who styled himself Lord Voldemort rose to prominence gaining many followers who called themselves Death Eaters during the time that our parents attended Hogwarts_. _Voldemort along with his minions attempted to subvert all of the magical community here to his rule as a step toward domination of all of the Britain. It was a dark, dark time that left our people here decimated. Our numbers in Britain are scarcely half of what they were thirty years ago. Many were killed like my grandparents, my mother's parents, I mean. Many, many more, like my Uncle David, left the country entirely."

Bronwen set the photo album aside and gently took his hands into her own. "Harry, she said sadly. "Your parents did not die in an automobile accident. They were the last two people that Voldemort killed."

Harry only thought that he had been shocked that day. The bus ride paled into insignificance. A house elf. Trivial. Moving photographs. Yawn. But this? Harry felt as if he were falling into a pit.

"How?" he asked tears welling. " Where? Why? When?"

Bronwen squeezed his hand in sympathy. "Your parents were in the forefront of those battling the Death Eaters. Evidently when you would have been slightly more than a year old, Voldemort broke into the house where you and your parents were living. Voldemort and your father dueled. Your father died. From what I've been told and what I have uncovered on my own, your mother put herself between Voldemort and you. Voldemort murdered her in your nursery."

"I'm surprised he didn't try to kill me," Harry said hoarsely.

"Oh, honey, he did," Bronwen gently replied. "That scar on your forehead is where his killing curse struck you but the great mystery is that you did not die. Instead the curse rebounded on Voldemort. His body has never been found but neither has he been seen since that night. He disappeared and you became_ 'The Boy who Lived.'_ You say that you cannot do magic yet you are one of the most famous people in the wizarding world."

Harry remained silent for several minutes. Bronwen's revelations ripped the scab from his psychic wound. Pain shot through him as if the death of his parents were mere days in the past. AS he rubbed his scar anger surged as well. His Aunt and Uncle lied to him. It was unfathomable that they did not know the details of his parents demise yet they choose to tell him that they died in a car crash instead of falling while heroically fighting evil; that his scar was a result of their drunken irresponsibility.

Bronwen retrieved the photo album. She turned to the almost the end then handed it to Harry.

"This was taken three days before…" she began in a subdued tone. "Before they died. The baby is you, of course."

Harry stared. He did not sob but tears unabashedly ran down his cheeks. In one picture, he stood unsteadily between his parents each with a hand of his in theirs. In the other, they were holding him aloft. In both, all three were smiling broadly. Harry could almost hear his giggling wafting across the years until a sudden vision of a blinding green light shoved all else from his mind temporarily. The vision was not unfamiliar to him. It haunted his dreams for as long as he could remember but for the first time he had an inkling of the source.

As it faded, Harry turned to the last page. In the final photograph, he was cradled in Sirius Black's arms being softly tickled. A small smile pushed its way through his pain while he watched his one year-old self wave his arms and laugh. Harry caught the briefest hint of pain crossing Bronwen's eyes but it disappeared almost as quickly as it appeared.

"Will your father be back soon?" Harry asked. "I'd like to talk to him."

"No, he won't be," Bronwen replied evenly.

"Oh," Harry said. "Is he in America?"

Bronwen took the album and replaced it on the bookshelf. She sat back down but it was several moments before she replied.

"He's not in the United States, Harry," she finally said. "He's in Azbaban, the wizard prison, serving a life sentence for murder. Multiple murders if you wish to get technical."

Harry's jaw dropped in stunned amazement. That the happy, smiling boy in the photographs was a killer knocked him from the rails.

"Most of our community consider him to be only second to Voldemort in evil," she continued in a flat tone. "Many think that he was in fact Voldemort's right hand man."

Harry's mind raced. That his parent's best friend, his own godfather was in league with the man who killed them shook him to the core.

"Was he?" he blurted.

Instead of answering she rose from the sofa. "Come with me, Harry, if you would, please," she said straightening her skirt.

As he had all morning, Harry followed still dazed by the revelation and wanting something which to cling. Bronwen led him back down stairs and then further down into the basement. Unlike the rest of the house, the large cellar was gloomy. Curtains muted the sunlight seeping through the few small windows keeping the room in a shrouded in semidarkness. Harry's heart jumped when an old lady suddenly began shrieking at him. He instinctively dropped into a defensive crouch before realising that the woman was actually a painting.

"I'm sorry," Bronwen shouted over the din. "I should have warned you about grandmother."

Harry scooted past the portrait which continued to rail vehemently. He shook his head. Granny's language matched her looks. Both were more than usually ugly.

"She used to hang in the foyer," Bronwen said once they were a bit further along. "We had to remove the entire wall since the portrait enchanted to prevent it being moved."

"I'd tossed it into the dustbin," Harry said hoping that the ringing in his ears would subside soon.

"I could not do that to Kreacher," replied Bronwen. "He was especially devoted to Walburga, my gran. During the renovation, I ordered that nothing was to be thrown away. Instead, it was brought down here so that Kreacher could be surrounded by the familiar. I just wish that he would allow Lilac to clean down here. I could order it but that seems wrong somehow."

"Who's Kreacher?" asked Harry.

Bronwen extended her hand gesturing to where a house-elf came shambling from the twilight toward them. He was only the second house-elf that Harry met yet it was evident to him that Kreacher was very, very old. His ears drooped and hair sprouted from them in random thick clumps. His leathery skin looked as if a barrel of moisturiser would be absorbed without making a dent. Unlike Lilac's bright, intelligent eyes, Kreacher's were dull and, Harry thought, with more than a flicker of madness.

"More strangers," Kreacher muttered. "More strangers in the house. Overrun by strangers like vermin."

"Please pardon the interruption but I need to show my friend the tapestry of the Black family tree," Bronwen said politely.

Kreacher reversed course. Bronwen and Harry walked along behind him. The basement was a jumble of furniture. Couches and cabinets cast odd shadows that heightened the somberness. Cobwebs hung from nearly every corner while undisturbed dust thick enough to cause Bronwen to sneeze covered every surface. To Harry's horror several dried, shrunken house-elf heads hung on one wall like hunters trophies.

The small procession stopped suddenly. Harry, who's eyes were darting about him, collided into Bronwen.

"Sorry," he said before a massive tapestry snared his attention. It was huge covering an entire wall. A family crest, sable, a chevron between two mullets in chief and a sword in base, argent with two greyhounds rampant held pride of place at the top. Harry peered closer trying to make out the motto below the crest.

"Toujours Pur," Bronwen furnished noting his attention. "Always pure."

"Kinda weird," Harry said.

"Not really," Bronwen replied. "When you consider that you're looking at seven hundred years of almost exclusively pure-blood fanatics. See that hole in the corner?"

Harry looked to where she pointed It was near the bottom depicting a more recent generation. There was a hole burnt into the tapestry obliterating a name.

"My cousin, Andromeda, was there but when she married a muggle, Gran blasted her name from the tree," Bronwen said.

"Blood traitor," Kreacher murmured.

"What's a muggle?" Harry asked.

"A term our people use to designate those who cannot do magic," she answered. "Now that hole to the left of Andromeda is where my father's name once was recorded. His mother blasted his name from the tapestry also. Thank you, Kreacher. We'll leave now. I apoligise for disturbing you."

Bronwen did not speak until they were back in the drawing room. A pot of tea awaited them thanks to Lilac. Bronwen poured both of them a cup before before continuing.

"The Blacks as I said have been pure blood bigots for centuries," she began as she sat down on a chair opposite Harry. "Andromeda was disowned for marrying a muggle even though Ted Tonks, her husband, was what we call muggle-born, a wizard or witch born of two muggle parents as was your mother."

Harry blinked. It had not occurred to him that his mother was not from a magical family. Thinking of his Aunt Petunia though, it was self-evident. If she could do magic, she would have told him about his background instead of lying to him.

"How does that happen?" Harry asked.

Bronwen held up her hands. "No one knows why any more than they know why sometimes a child of a witch and wizard has no magical ability at all. They are called squibs but the point I'm making is that the Blacks are, as I said, for the most part pure blood fanatics."

"When Voldemort arrived on the scene, several family members became Death Eaters. Most of the rest supported in principle the ideals of pure blood supremacy championed by the Dark Lord. One that did not was my father. He turned his back on his family and their prejudices and was ostracised for it."

Harry frowned. "But how did he become Voldemort's second in command?"

Bronwen took a long sip of tea. "Logic would dictate that he did not. My Uncle David hates him but he never believed that Sirius turned to the dark."

"Why does he hate your father?" Harry asked before realising that it was a very personal question.

Bronwen slowly sat he cup and saucer down. She stared at it for few seconds before looking over to Harry.

"I was born a little more then a year after our parents left Hogwarts," she said. "Unlike your parents, mine never married. Mother, from what I gathered from my uncle, set her cap for my father early on during their time at Hogwarts. Father was, as you saw in the photographs, a blade. Furthermore, his family was very, very wealthy. Add to that he was a bit of a rake which some women find irresistible. When sleeping with him for several years could not get him to the altar, Mother decided to get pregnant."

"Father refused to marry her and denied that he was the one who got her into the club. Although others were named as possibly responsible, tests proved me to Sirius Black's daughter. He made arrangements to support me financially but never had anything to do with me or my mother beyond that."

"Mother, who was never that stable to begin with, spiraled downward until she chose to take her life by drinking a poison potion on my third birthday. Fortunately, I vomited up the potion before any real harm could be done to me."

The hairs on Harry's neck raised in revulsion as he comprehended what she just said. As bad as the Dursleys treated him, he never feared for his life. To have your own mother try to murder you was too staggering to contemplate.

"I'm sorry," he said weakly.

Bronwen shrugged. "It is what it is," she said. "I did not have the best of starts but my uncle, aunt, and my cousins have more than made me feel loved and safe for the last nearly ten years now. I wish that my parents made different choices but…well,to repeat myself, it is what it is."

"You had better luck with your aunt and uncle and cousins than I did," Harry said.

"I figured that when I discovered you sleeping in a closet," Bronwen agreed.

When he remained silent Bronwen leaned forward. "My father is in prison for murder," she repeated. "He was tossed into Azkaban without a trial for the killing of a friend of his, Peter Pettigrew, and twelve muggles with a single curse. Peter Pettigrew's last words denounced father for betraying your parents location to Voldemort."

Harry grew cold. His mind refused to focus as he stared at her. For the second time that morning, the green flash vision filled his consciousness.

"I have no proof," Bronwen said not wilting before Harry's arctic gaze. "But I cannot believe that my father give away your parents. It runs counter to all that he was and believed in."

"Then why does everyone think so?" Harry asked sharply.

"He was your family's secret keeper," she replied. "Dumbledore confirmed this in the aftermath."

"Secret keeper?"

Bronwen eased back into her chair. "A secret keeper is apart of a very complex spell called a fidelius charm," she said. "As I said earlier your parents were in the thick of the fight against Voldemort but with your birth, they needed a little time from the front line, so to speak. A fidelius charm hides someone to the point where it is impossible to find them because the secret is attached to a living soul called _'the secret keeper', _in this case, my father_._ It is essentially foolproof unless the secret keeper divulges the location."

"Which your father did," Harry snapped.

"Which he is accused of doing," Bronwen countered. "But a leopard doesn't change its spots. He may not have treated me as a daughter and he was a bastard and a half to mother but he loved you as a son. He would not have done that to you or your parents. He would have died first and I intended to prove it."

Harry glared at her but she calmly refused to rise to the unspoken challenge. She remained silent. Instead it was Harry who slowly relented. Bronwen said that James and Sirius were practically brothers. Confirmation of that lay in all of the photographs. If they were plain, regular pictures maybe there could be some doubt but from the little moving glimpses of two boys growing up together an unassailable bond poured forth. They were brothers. Bronwen's mother tried to kill her but Harry found it impossible to believe that her father who held him so tenderly as a babe had a hand in the attempt on his life despite of what others may say.

Bronwen watched the drama play out on his features. When she saw him waver she spoke again. "Harry, I'm not going to ask you to believe me," she said quietly. "The entirety of what you know of the subject what I've told you after all but I'd like for you to keep an open mind. Give me; give my father the benefit of a doubt."

At length, Harry shook his head. "Maybe I'm a chump but I think you're right. I feel it."

"Thank you, Harry," Bronwen replied her grip on her emotions cracking just a bit.

"Now what?" Harry asked.

Bronwen spread her hands. "Well, that's up to you. I can get you back to your home in Surrey or you can stay here with me until we go to Hogwarts in September. There is more than enough room. You won't have to sleep in a closet unless you want."

"We call them cupboards," Harry replied smiling. "But I think that I can stand being in a regular room."

"I know what they're called on this side of the pond," Bronwen said. "So you want to stay here?"

"Yes," Harry said with rising excitement elation at being away from the Dursleys filling him.

"Fantastic," she said. "First things first. I absolutely need to take a nap. Let me sleep for a couple or three hours then we'll go get you some clothes and sundries. We'll use my money until you can gain access to your account."

"I don't have any money," Harry said.

Bronwen laughed sleepily. "Honey, you're about as rich as the Queen."


End file.
